


the divide of terms.

by trickstered



Series: The Great Rehash [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Humanstuck, M/M, red rom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstered/pseuds/trickstered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think maybe you’d take the world off his shoulders if you could. You think maybe he wouldn’t let you; he’d fight you tooth and nail because it’s his to carry. He’s a silly thing with eyes older than they should be and a sharp temper that stings more than the blades that mauled up your face real good in college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the divide of terms.

**Author's Note:**

> An AU of an AU mixed with and AU of canon. Also known as the gross boyfriend au except no one calls it that.

Of the few certainties you have, the one you have become most familiar with is that Dave hates nicknames. He loathes them. It might be that he only loathes the nicknames you give him, but you know he hates them nonetheless. If you’re wanting to get real specific, he hates the nickname kitten. It’s a motherfucking real crying shame that he hates it, of course, because it’s possibly the most apt one you can think of.

Your favourite part of youtube is the kitten part. They are a majestic kind of creature that be sixteen kinds of adorable. They are also lazy. They sprawl. They demand attention and then ignore you to their convenience. They are _exactly_ like Dave. (The biggest difference is that Dave neither tears up the curtains nor pees in the kitchen. As far as you know, anyway.)

He doesn’t see it, naturally. He loathes your bombardment of emails and he has cut you off at least three times in the last month.  He barely lasts twelve hours before you have grinding down onto you, insistent and forever impatient. You have the feeling that he prefers it like that, when they two of you don’t make the time to get undressed and just move until he’s louder than any motherfucker you’ve ever seen. You have your preferences too, but your biggest is watching him come undone.  The funny thing is that you crave attention and so does he. The difference is that he doesn’t know how to accept it and you give it away until it’s pouring out of you. You’ve never met a anyone so unsure of how to be spoiled before. 

You think maybe you’d take the world off his shoulders if you could. You think maybe he wouldn't let you; he’d fight you tooth and nail because it’s his to carry. He’s a silly thing with eyes older than they should be and a sharp temper that stings more than the blades that mauled up your face real good in college. 

You think you might be a little bit in love with the way he hunches over when he plays video games, or the way he lays his head in your lap and pretends to sleep. _Pretending_ because you know he doesn’t _really_ sleep; it’s a mockery of a thing. You have to take baby steps in the morning or he’s upright and sharp, slightly panicked and vulnerable. 

He hates it, you’re sure. Sometimes you don’t even know what the fuck it is you’re supposed to do with him. 

He sits tonight, cross legged and bent forwards, right in the middle of his kitchen. It’s hot outside and it’s only getting hotter. There’s a bag of doritos in front of him and all he has on are his boxers. You lean over the kitchen counter, eyebrow raised and you know he knows you're there because he always does. For a long moment you just watch him stuff handful after handful into his mouth before he finally picks up a chip and throws it back. It hits you in the cheek. 

“Floors cold,” he says. “Bed was too hot.” 

You slouch over the counter, arms dangling over the edge. You stretch enough just to tease the top of his hair with your fingertips. He doesn’t flinch. “Heard you banging every door in here, bro.”

His shoulders square and then relax. “Sorry.”

You twirl a strand of blond around your finger. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“Did I wake you?” 

He stuffs more into his mouth and you focus in on the way he’s ate half the bag. “Nah.” 

He’s quiet after that. A minute passes before he glances over his shoulder at you. He looks tired. You feel tired. You think maybe it’s about time you both get a motherfucking fan in your room, because you’re losing sleep for all the wrong reasons. 

“You look like shit,” he says all very matter of fact. You grin and sag completely, arms limp. 

“You too.” You think maybe he smiles for an eighth of a second before he’s frowning again. “I’m gonna up and soak a towel in some cold water, yo. It’ll cool you down nice and sweet.”

You pull yourself up and he looks sceptical. But you’ve got this. It’s full proof; you tell him of the many nights your lay feverish with a wet towel around your head. You only shut up when he gets to his feet and pushes by you to get back to your bedroom. He takes the doritos with him. 

A different kind of person would wonder if Dave actually liked them. You’re pretty certain he likes _you._ He lets you sleep beside him, for instance. You've see his eyes more than anyone has, you think. His glasses get in the way and his eyes are the most stunning red you have ever seen. You have the feeling that maybe he doesn’t quite understand what you see him and you aren’t sure you could explain it. The simplest way is that there is a turning in your gut when he isn’t there and it only turns pleasant when he is. 

You walk slow to the bathroom and grab a bath towel; you dump it inside the shower, set the water to the coldest you can make it and you soak that motherfucker up until it feels like ice in your hand. You barely ring it out. 

When you throw it at Dave afterwards, he makes the biggest fuss; his hair clings to his forehead and you end up wrapping it around his head for him. He complains the entire time until you kiss him and tell him to shut the fuck up and get some sleep. You know for a fact he won’t, but concedes to laying down and you hold on extra tight so he doesn’t do a motherfucking great escape back to the kitchen. 

(You don’t sleep either, and the doritos sit on his dresser. But he doesn’t complain about being too hot, and you’ll be smug about it in the morning.)


End file.
